


mona lisa (pleased to please ya)

by ymguchi (complex_andhera)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, Slow Build, Soul Mate AU, bear with me i promise it gets more interesting as the fic goes on, yet another "what if yamaguchi and tsukki didn't meet again in junior high fics"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:15:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5738044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/complex_andhera/pseuds/ymguchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he's never seen eyes so enticing, or a smile that infuriates and confuses him so much. </p><p>this mystery man walks into the bakery  across the street and walks into his heart with one smile.  and tsukishima can feel the red string of fate tightening around his fingers when he looks into his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. nearly witches - panic! at the disco

_Dès le premier jour, (From day one,)_  
_Ton parfum m'enivra mon amour, (Your fragrance intoxicate me my love,)_  
_C'est dans ses instants, (It is in these moments,)_  
_J'aimerai être comme soie par moment, (I want to be like silk through time)_  
_Mais depuis ce jour, je n'ai qu'un seul et unique regret. (But since that day, I have a single regret.)_

  
Six o’clock.

It’s raining heavily and Kei sighs and swears to himself. Turning to his side and pulling his sheets closer over his body, he thinks about how morning practice for the neighborhood association volleyball team is going to get canceled again, and that he is going to spend the rest of the day sleepy and lethargic, barely conscious during his shift at work and aimlessly picking through his food at his lunch break.

Everyone else in the house is still sleeping; he can hear the creak of his parents’ bed in the room directly above his and Akiteru’s snores coming from the adjacent room. He slips on his socks and trudges downstairs to make himself a decent breakfast.

Halfway through making toast and frying some eggs, he remembers that today is a Saturday, which means that he has to be at work in…

….an hour…

He scarfs down breakfast and after a quick shower, kisses his mother on the cheek as she comes down the stairs to wish him a good day. The train station is about a 15 minute walk from his house, but he doesn’t mind it because it gives him the opportunity to enjoy the sunrise and the puffy white clouds hanging overcast and the time to appreciate the quietness of Miyagi before the town really awakens. He enjoys his moment of peace before he enters the stress of retail hell, and when he finally gets to the station for a monthly pass and drags himself and his backpack to the platform that takes him to the city.

Impatient, he taps his food and keeps checking his watch every few seconds. He hates the wait just as much as the actual train ride itself, dodging the stares of office ladies in skirt jackets and the shoulders of salarymen hungover from their night of social business drinking.

But then he gets in.

“Excuse me,”

A man with beautiful, shoulder length brown hair loosely tied in a messy pony tail that cascades down his back steps into the same compartment as him. On his back is a red satchel, almost falling apart and ripped up in several places, and even though he wears tattered black, fingerless gloves, Tsukishima can tell that his fingertips are stained gray like charcoal.

Kei knows that he must be freezing in that light jacket and black t-shirt, especially because his jeans look more than a couple years older than he does and are just as tattered as his overall appearance is.

Despite this shabby apparel, his face is beautiful. When a disdainful crowd finally lets the nearly homeless looking man into the train, Tsukishima can see that he has a beautiful face.

Round, symmetrical brown eyes that are cast down to the floor, long, fluttering eyelashes that accent delicate, high cheekbones spattered with freckles were all he could make out from across the train car, and he can’t help but continue to subtly scan this shabby (possibly art student) as he leans against the train doors while the LED light of a sleek silver cell phone.

They’re only standing a couple feet away from each other, and Kei can smell the turpentine and plain soap against his skin, and they get off at the same stop that’s adjacent to the bookstore that Kei works for. His sharp eyes take note of how he walks with a little fear in his shape, shaking slightly like he’d had too much coffee and turns into the tiny French bakery that stands a couple of blocks away from his workplace.

Words can’t really describe the way he feels drawn to the timid boy; it’s probably like something you feel for someone you used to know in a past life. He shakes his head and tries to ignore the spark of electricity he feels going down his spine like a circuit. His head jerks up and he catches the freckled man staring at him straight in the eyes. They stay locked like that for a few seconds but it feels like hours passing, and the two of them are in a world of their own. For a moment, the bustle around them freezes. All he hears is a cacophony of whispers against the backdrop of silence, and the man continues to stare at him, begging, almost pleading for him to come closer.

And for some reason his bad wants to comply…

To follow his voice, to follow him until the end of time...

The feeling that they have somehow met before…

Daichi’s heavy hand comes down on his shoulder, knocking him straight out of his mid-morning trance. Tsukishima shakes, uncharacteristically, and even though Daichi always looks like the smiling dad-type, he can tell his grin is tight lipped and he knows he’s going to be in a mess of trouble if he doesn’t get inside and clock in right this instant.

He turns his head and starts fast walking into the shop, away from his crazy boss and his death grip. But even the promise of impending doom can’t stop him from taking one last glance over his shoulders. Through the glass of the front store all he sees is a freckled figure, standing a couple of paces away. Impulsively, he waves, just the show of long, tapered fingers to convey what...he’s not exactly sure. Despite his hesitation, the figure waves back to him, even gracing him with a small, crooked smile.

His heart lurches at the sight, and he makes a plan to visit that bakery as soon as he gets back on lunch break.


	2. irresistible - fall out boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (yamaguchi pov)
> 
> our boys do a little more than just stare at each other.
> 
> conversations that feel normal between perfect strangers, and gestures that are too nice for just anybody take place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoy this chapter!! 
> 
> things will continue to heat up and get interesting :c

_Coming in unannounced, drag my nails on the tile_

_I just followed your scent, you can just follow my smile_

_All of your flaws are aligned with this mood of mine_

_Cutting me to the bone, nothing left to leave behind_

 

_You ought to keep me concealed just like I was a weapon_

_I didn't come for a fight but I will fight till the end_

_And this one might be a battle, might not turn out okay_

_You know you look so Seattle, but you feel so LA_

 

_And I love the way you hurt me_

_It's irresistible, yeah_

 

* * *

 

 

they’re choreographed,

 

falling in reverse. tsukishima stretches his hand out _“hold on to me”_ is a silent scream. but yamaguchi keeps laughing, like he hasn’t heard the desperate plea. laughing, forever laughing, his mouth outstretched in a smile but too far away for him to reach. no matter how much he wants to touch, longs for it. he can’t have him.

 

it always  feels like he is too far away.

 

* * *

 

yamaguchi tadashi doesn’t just work at the bakery. he’s the dough boy. all day he’s surrounded by roughly 100 lbs of flour and squishy dough and he pounds it into shape so that his boss/coworker/sometimes fuckbuddy kuroo tetsurou can stick in the oven to bake all manners of varieties of bread. sourdough, pumpernickel, french, or whole wheat. it doesn’t matter to him. but the punching, the incessant feel of the rolling pin against their pliable dough form-that’s what he lives for. it’s the kind of stress relief that he can’t even get from a joint rolled after a long day on the subway, in the comfort of his bedroom, or an all night halo marathon with excitable (idiotic) volleyball obsessed roommates. and, most importantly, it’s enough to get him to ride the 7 am train out into the city, away from the cozy suburbs where he lived with his parents and a quick stretch away from the art school that he attends part time, after his morning shifts.

 

it’s not that he’s unmotivated, per se. he’s just always, always been short of money, and taking classes part time and working 30 hours a week is how he usually makes ends meet. he’s trying to ignore the fact that he’s been having a hard time creating _anything_ of substance. the fogginess in his brain, the endless hours trying to fall asleep but being too scared to close his eyes, in fear that the spindly shape of the wispy monsters he can see but not name will finally be able to snake around his legs and pull him into the endless darkness that he’s been trying so hard to resist. his eyelids are growing heavy and he’s having a hard time staying awake, what with staying up till 4 am trying to fall asleep to the sound of the bed springs creaking as his roomates have sex as athletic and as passionate as the volleyball that unites them and trying to wake up early enough to take the morning train. his fingertips are frozen from drawing shapes in the fog forming on the train window through his fingerless gloves, and walking around enveloped in the chilly winter air has really done a number on him considering that all he’s eaten today is half a sweet bread roll and a cup of coffee with approximately 6 creamers in it. his boss is kind enough to give him a 30 minute lunch break when he sees that his bread kneading abilities have plummeted and he’s hardly doing more than feebly trusting his knuckles into the soft lumps, hardly useful to them on a busy monday morning.

 

“get your head screwed on straight”, nekomata, his boss warns him sternly.

 

he’s not all bad though, and on his way out he slips him a couple bills because he know’s Yamaguchi won’t eat if he needs to save money, or might even forget if he decides to start on a particularly engaging sketch during his break and gets way too carried away.

 

“and get me a pastrami, too, from that jewish deli down the corner, okay? don’t waste that money, boy.” he brushes off his generosity with a gruff wave shooing him out the door.

 

yamaguchi instinctively makes his way to the park that’s a couple of blocks away from his work place. there’s a fantastic bodega there where he knows he can get a mean sandwich and a packet of chips for cheap and he can sit outside and enjoy the sunlight that prevails over the horizon despite the frigid rain and make sketches of the way the water ripples in the pond that dominates the center, even though he knows that most of the birds that like to flock there to rest and for a bite of fish have flown south for the winter.

 

soon, he’s sitting, parked underneath the shade of a tree on a bench that creaks slightly when he puts his weight down on it. sandwich in hand, he peels back the wax paper that provides a thin barrier between the heat of his food and his freezing fingers.

 

he’s met with a shock of blond hair and a stunned look.

 

the man from the train who was watching him earlier is sitting right in front of him, looking at him intensely, and for a moment he’s taken aback. he doesn’t even have to say anything, or make an attempt at painful small talk. they both know that they shared some kind of moment earlier today, and the need to explain themselves or what they’re doing or how they ended up side by side once again is not at the forefront of either of their minds.

 

their fingertips brush.

 

without really thinking about what he’s doing, he offers the stranger half of his sandwich.

 

he expects to be brushed off. he expects him to walk away, maybe shoot him a demeaning sneer or flip him the bird. that would be acceptable. anyone would be freaked out if some weird art kid with bandages all over his arms and fingerless gloves that are falling apart held out half a tuna fish sandwish (and not even the uneaten half, he stuck out the side he bit on like he wasn’t

thinking about germs or propriety or _boundaries_ or anything like that).

 

he’s even more surprised when the freakishly tall guy takes a bite from his sandwich….

 

...out the part that he’d already bitten out of.

 

(yamaguchi feels his heart beat stutter a little.)

 

“did we go to the same school or something?”

 

the guy’s chewing like it’s not big deal, wiping the corner of his mouth with his sleeve bunched up around chalky, white knuckles.

 

“i don’t mean to be, like, weird, but something about you is really familiar.’

 

yamaguchi looks down and fumbles with his bag of chips. the stranger takes it from his hands and opens it for him, amused as he watched him struggle.

 

“no i don’t think so. what’s your surname?”

 

“tsukishima. yours?”

 

“yamaguchi. it’s a pretty common one, even if we did go to school together, you probably have me confused from someone else.”

 

 _i wasn’t exactly a memorable guy back then_ obviously goes unsaid. 

 

“nah. doesn’t ring a bell.” a pause, surprisingly not awkward, floats between them.

 

tsukishima looks down at him and yamaguchi scrunches his eyebrows up in confusion.

 

“what is it? did i get mustard on my face, or something?”

 

the man looks at him, lips pursed, sour expression nearly making yamaguchi burst out laughing.

 

“you remind me of some kid i used to know. along time ago. really short, had a lot of bad acne, used to get picked on alot. forgot his name though….”

 

he shakes his head, as if trying to rid himself of a bad memory. yamaguchi’s confusion hasn’t been alleviated, but he gets to admire the golden fleck in this foreign looking guy’s face (there’s no way this guy is 100% japanese, not with both blond hair and amber eyes. international student? or mixed race, at the very least?)

 

“anyways, you looked like you were freezing your ass off,” he trails off and Yamaguchi’s eyebrows are raised all the way into his hair. “on the train, i mean…”

 

he looks down, and the can tell that the tips of this Tsukishima’s ears are turning red. he rubs the back of his neck and yamaguchi finds the whole bashful sight, frankly, adorable.

 

the tall stranger stands up, and yamaguchi could tell that he was long limbed but when he stands up straight he’s got a good head over him him and narrow shoulders that he admits that he finds the slightest bit sexy. the mole at the corner of his mouth adds to his charm, and yamaguchi is so distracted by the way he ruffles his blond hair and messes up their normal composure so that little tufts are sticiking that he doesn’t notice when his heavy black coat lands with a _plop_ on the bench.

 

the stranger starts walking away from him, shoulders receding, and he waves casually as he walks away before yamaguchi can protest or even thank him.

 

“try to stay warmer, okay?” he calls over his shoulder, and soon he’s gone, melting into the mist.

 

yamaguchi puts the coat on, drawing the heavy black fabric over his shoulders. it’s a little too big, and the sleeves are too long for his arms, but it’s nice because he can ball his fist up in the ends and finally feel his fingers again. as a bonus, there are warm, roomy pockets, and as he sticks his hands inside them and starts making his way back to the bakery, he feels a rumpled piece of paper no bigger than a post it note. on it, nothing more than a phone number and address written in firm, tiny black letters.

 

_you can return it at shibuya apartments, just off the k-- train station. i live in the tiny blue house with wide windows. pay me back with dinner, sometime._

 

_-kei_

 

yamaguchi smiles, and when he gets back to the store nekomata eyes him suspiciously as he hands him a now-cold pastrami. kuroo will not stop making fun of him and throwing him googly eyes, but he just ignores him and tries not to take it to heart. he has more important things to do.

 

like plan what he’s going to make for dinner.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! 
> 
> comments and kudos are always appreciated~
> 
> hit me up @ sleepysauna.tumblr.com


	3. thriller - fall out boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yamaguchi comes over on an impulse. they make more than a couple bad decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh i finally found the motivation to continue this fic. 
> 
> please let me know what you think! comments and criticism are always appreciated :c 
> 
> i know my writing is kind of abrupt, and i'm sort of making this story line up as i go, so i hope that it's okay and y'all still like it!!! =3=

_ I can take your problems away with a nod and a wave _

_ Of my hand, 'cause that's just the kind of boy that I am  _

_ The only thing I haven't done yet is die _

 

_ And it's me and my plus one at the afterlife  _

_ Crowds are won and lost and won again _

_ But our hearts beat for the diehards _

 

_ So long live the car crash hearts  _

_ Cry on the couch all the poets come to life  _

_ Fix me in 45 _

* * *

 

yamaguchi is  _ running. running, running, running, _

 

like he can hear the shrill trill of an alarm beeping, annoying him, thrumming behind his eyelids

 

and it’s a sign, it’s telling him that he is he’s late, horribly late, he isn’t going to make it-

 

but for what?  _ why  _ are is he running? 

 

he has no idea. all he knows is that 

 

there is an arm, slender, stretched out, beckoning towards him,

 

and if he speeds up a little bit more, maybe he can could run a little farther, if only he reaches out his fingers, stretched, all the way, maybe,  _ maybe _ -

 

and then he falls out of the bed, straight onto his ass. his alarm clock  _ is  _ beeping, loudly, the  blue digital numbers illuminating the birds nest of his hair, falling out of the loose ponytail he’d tied it in before he passed out around midnight. 

 

it’s the crack of dawn and sunlight is barely coming through the blinds, the soft glow warming his face and reflecting off of the brown freckles that litter his tan skin, an anomaly that gets him more than a few stares when he walks down the streets of Tokyo (if he didn’t already stick out with his paint splattered jeans and pierced ears, lip, and tongue). 

 

he stretches, gingerly, lets out a whiny yawn and kicks off his blankets. after a cup of coffee he throws on some clothes and jogs to the train station, eager to spend all his time at the studio on his rare day off from work. he starts a sketch of the ideas floating around in his head to make the time go faster. 

 

_ meet me at apt 23 in shibuya. _

 

he stares closer. he doesn’t remember anyone borrowing his sketchbook…

 

_ bring strawberry wine  _

 

is scribbled in the corner. who the hell left him this note in his sketchbook?? he’s getting angry, but then a shiver runs down his spine. an electric shock sparks at his fingertips and spreads down his back, tickling his shoulders. 

 

_ the blond stranger in the pack. his piercing gaze in the train.  _

 

for some reason, he felt drawn to him, and then he felt annoyed at himself for being so drawn to someone, whose name he doesn’t even know…

that doesn’t stop him from ducking into the liquor shop off campus and buying a clear bottle of sweet smelling strawberry wine before hopping on the train that takes him to the Shibuya line.

* * *

 

three raps on his door and tsukishima is smirking. before the fourth one can knock through his thin door frame and smash it into his wall, he opens the door and the man standing in front of him trips and yelps in surprise. tsukishima catches him, as smooth as a yaoi manga protagonist about to go in for the kill, and yamaguchi blush but is thankful, nevertheless, that he’s saved from face planting into painful hardwood floors. the bottle of strawberry wine is cold, chilled against both of their chests almost like a child that they’re sharing the burden of. 

 

tsukishima’s smirk grows and yamaguchi’s blush only intensifies. he’s grateful that his face is buried in tsukishima’s chest, at least to grant him a little bit of dignity. 

 

tsukishima props him back upright and turns on his heel. yamaguchi follows him like a lost puppy, and he’s welcomed by the scent of salt and pepper pork chops and sticky white rice in unopened take out containers. he forgets all of his regrets at the smell and his legs take him to the low table in the blond stranger’s cramped living room. he takes in the meticulous order, the way the books are neatly aligned and the rug spotless under the table that he can tell has been wiped clean recently. 

 

a paper plate is handed to him. the stranger is handsome, up close. yamaguchi can make out a long, thin nose and amber eyes, a narrow face and a crooked smile when he’s up close, only a small table separating the both of them. tufts of blond hair still manage to surprise him; it doesn’t have the artificial look of dyed hair, so his first thought is, maybe half foreign? 

 

“eat first. then drinks. and then, then we can talk.” 

 

yamaguchi’s stomach rumble is enough of an answer.

* * *

 

they’re loose limbed, slumped against each other. yamaguchi’s moved from across the table to right next to tsukishima, who finally consented to at least tell him his fucking name (albeit through gritted teeth and an annoyed expression). he’s gone from sitting a safe distance away to resting against tsukishima, shoulders brushing and the soft downy hairs of yamaguchi’s pony tail tickling tsukishima’s neck. 

 

“w-what the hell am i doing here?” yamaguchi slurs. 

 

“that’s what i’d like to know. also, why are you in my dreams? why do i see you when i close my eyes every night?” 

 

tsukishima’s eyes narrow. he’s a quiet drinker (he’s a quiet  _ everything  _ from what yamaguchi’s observed in the last few hour). the tv’s on and some variety show is playing on mute. the dim light illuminates their faces and they draw closer and closer together as the night passes on. 

 

“you get the dreams too?” 

 

yamaguchi almost misses the quiet monotone voice. he would miss it if he was a little more sloshed, so he does the most reasonable thing he can. he scoots closer so he can hear better. he doesn’t know how his earnest smile and wide eyes make tsukishima nervous, make his throat tighten and his pulse speed up out of his control. all he sees is a slightly drunk puppy, staring up at him waiting for answers. 

 

“yup. dreams, both in the night and during the day. sometimes i try to draw and my hands move on their own, making a sketch of you. can you imagine? sketching somebody you don’t even know?” 

 

yamaguchi stops, looking downcast. tsukishima feels the foreign, primal urge to  _ protect.  _

 

“you probably think that’s really creepy right? im sorry if i make you uncomfortable…” 

 

tsukishima’s derisive snort brings him out of his sadness. 

 

“‘s no weirder than inviting you here after a chance meeting on the train. surprised you came..”  _ pleasantly surprised  _ goes unsaid. 

 

“in the park…” yamaguchi looks down at his glass of strawberry wine. 

 

“you felt it too, right?” 

 

tsukishima’s heart almost stops for a moment. 

“y-yeah,” comes out shakily. “i’ve been feeling a shadow of that nearly every moment since we parted.” 

 

yamaguchi looks at him. he doesn’t realize that his hands have come to grip the sleeves of tsukishima’s wrists tightly. he looks from tsukishima’s eyes down to his lips. tsukishima is more nervous that he has ever been in his life. his hands are shaking, yamaguchi’s fingers know exactly how to find his even in the dark. then he feels yamaguchi’s cheek against his own, chilled from the ice in glass he’d been holding. it feels good as his face is heating up steadily. 

 

yamaguchi’s eyes look dizzy, blurred. but it’s with utmost clarity that tsukishima pushes their lips together, softly at first and then steadily more insistent. it feels like he will never get enough, and yamaguchi is pliant underneath him, giving into his whims and giving him exactly what he wants, what he didn’t even know he needed until this very moment. 

 

yamaguchi pulls away, grin stretching from cheek to cheek. he throws his arms around tsukishima and kei is so shocked he can do little more than wrap his own arms around yamaguchi’s narrow shoulders. 

 

“take me to bed, kei-kun.” yamaguchi whispers in his ears, faint against the rain that starting to pour against his windows. 

 

tsukishima swallows, and grips onto him tighter than ever. 

 

it feels like they’re going on a journey they’ve been on many, many,  _ many  _ more times before. 

 

the sheets are cool against the touch of their heated skin. yamaguchi’s raggedy hoodie falls off, followed by his v-neck and tsukishima’s tie. he pulls of tsukishima’s button down hastily, and he makes himself laugh when he pulls back to see kei’s glasses askew. kei can hardly be angry with him for long, pinning both of his hands above his head and leaning down to leave love bites at his collar and over his chest. yamaguchi’s moans are music to his ears, sweeter than anything he’s heard on the radio. 

 

they’re both too out of it to go all the way, but he gets a hand underneath yamaguchi’s sweatpants and soon his mouth joins them, eager to draw out more of 

yamaguchi’s pleas. they’re both so eager to chase the feeling of the familiar dance, grinding like teenagers who can’t contain themselves anymore. tsukishima applies pressure, gently at first but growing more insistent as yamaguchi’s eyes beg him to take him to paradise. 

 

“a-ah kei-kun. w-why does it f-feel like….we’ve been here before…?” 

 

tsukishima ignores the stuttering of his heart against his ribcage. 

 

“i’ve been wanting to do this to you,” he licks a stripe from yamaguchi’s neck down to his collarbone, where he leaves another bruising mark. “since i saw you on the train,” 

 

yamaguchi’s hands fist the blankets, desperate to seek something steady to grasp when his mind is starting to swim. tsukishima’s mouth is insistent against him, like he’s interrogating him about when they possible could have done this before for it to be comfortable enough to resume like it was nothing. 

 

his mind is a blur. he comes, and tsukishima swallows him down shamelessly. he comes up and wipes his mouth against his bony wrist. the sight is enough to get yamaguchi to go for round two. his chest is heaving and tsukishima immediately reaches into the night stand for a cigarette pack and a lighter. 

 

“want one?” he lights one and blows a sliver of smoke into the moonlit room. yamaguchi steals the one out of his mouth and puts it in the ashtray immediately. 

 

“i don’t like how you taste after you’ve been smoking,” he blurts. “i remember that i don’t like it...” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh thank you for reading!! please let me know if you thought this chapter was okay...
> 
> come find me on tumblr @ sleepysauna and let's yell about hq!!


	4. take cover - all time low

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little roof side chat. warm bread and pretty sunsets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry this doesn't really move the plot forward its just a bit of development. i just got back to really writing fic so forgive me if this isn't amazing....love y'all

There is hope for us yet  
We can die like the heroes before us  
Or live to be the wicked ones  
The wicked ones we're running from

Nobody's gonna believe  
When you say you're turning the page  
Cause you never put up a real fight  
So shut up and make it right  
Shut up and make it right

Singing "oh, take cover, take cover"  
Singing "oh, take cover, take cover"  
Secrets don't make friends  
We make love, and love falls apart  
Singing "oh, take cover"  
From our future hearts

yamaguchi wakes up and he doesn't know where he is. not unusual for him; as an artist, he's found himself falling asleep on soft expanses of mossy grass, in abandoned parking lots, and on park benches in the middle of the night when he's wandered too far and the trains shut down before he can get back home. 

what is unusual, is that there is a warm body lying next to him, snoring contentedly as his pale chest rises and falls in reassuring rhythm. he's never been the kind of person to take men home, both because he lacks the confidence and because he's generally too poor to afford going to bars or night clubs. he's mesmerized for a moment; the expanse of this stranger's chest peaks out from under the clothes he feel asleep in, and his neck is long with beautiful bruises forming near his clavicle and extending to his shoulders. 

his hair is tousled, a shade of blond that he's only seen on handsome american singers in magazines and on the internet. it looks soft to touch, and his eyes fixate on the way light strikes his hair because it’s a far cry from the ultra bleached hairstyles that are almost commonplace in the more fashionable districts within tokyo. 

he can't be completely japanese, tadashi concludes, not with that hair color. and if he remembers correctly, even his eyes are a bright gold, flecked with dark amber like a soaring phoenix that's burst inside his pupils. somehow, he's slept with some foreigner, or maybe someone with mixed blood, but it still freaks him out because he can count the number of times he's woken up in a stranger's bed on one hand, and they are almost never have this kind of sticking, exotic beauty. 

he's never even had studio models who look this effortlessly flawless, and before he realizes what he's doing, his hand reaches out to brush a strand of the stranger's hair out of his shut eyes. as soon as his fingers make contact with his forehead, the stranger's hand strikes out and grabs on his wrist. 

his eyes are wide open and he looks deadly for a moment, but after his eyes calibrate his location and take a look around, he relaxes, and his grip loosens, much to yamaguchi's instant relief. tadashi's heart is palpating wildly, and for a moment they both just staring at each other like they are in a sappy romance comic when the hero and heroine share one unspoken moment that binds them together forever for the rest of the story.

but instead of realizing his dreams of finding a prince charming, the stranger in front of him coughs, awkwardly to break the tension of the moment. his rubs the back of his neck and avoids tadashi's gaze, which only makes his heart speed up faster. the innocence of the moment, like he's a school girl who just made her first love confession and is now waiting for him to say something, anything to break the silence. 

"would you like breakfast?" is what he goes with. 

kei smiles, and tadashi can tell that he isn't in the habit of behaving so unguardedly because the corners of his mouth look a bit stiff and his forehead forms thin wrinkles like he's trying on a new expression and he doesn't like the feel of it. 

"come on," he says, taking tsukishima by the hand and pulling him out of the bed. "i work at a great bakery nearby," 

-  
kei tells him given name over doughy scones that fall apart when he bites into them. nekomata gave him the morning off with the promise that he would come back and work a double shift on the weekend. 

"the first time i've seen you with a decent guy," he teases, and yamaguchi blushes at his insinuating tone. 

"you finally found a man who isn't way below your standards," yaku chimes in, and he has to shoo both of them into the backroom as a very confused tsukishima looks on at them. 

they take a bad full of last night's left over sweets and a loaf of fresh bread up to the terrace of tsukishima's apartment building. they feed some of the bread to crows that flock together on the concrete that overlooks the entire city, and yamaguchi doesn't know how, but he feels like he's falling in love, a little bit.

kei tels him that he is indeed full japanese. "for some reason, everyone in my family is blond. it made me stick out too much in grade school," he pauses for a moment, thoughtful. "i'm sure that being a couple heads taller than everyone didn't help much." 

"your name is pretty unusual, too," yamaguchi agrees, "i bet teachers mistook you for a girl a lot, right?" 

kei bumps his shoulders against tadashi's, but theres no real malice behind it. 

''yeah, you're right," he concedes. 

his slender fingers come to rest at the bridge of yamaguchi's nose. he's lying down now, looking up at kei with curious eyes. tsukishima traces the freckles that span over his cheeks, slowly moving away from his face and at the junction where the collar of his shirt brushes over his shoulders. 

"you were bullied a lot because of these," it's not a question, because tsukishima already knows, has seen images from his past that he tries to never think about in his present. 

yamaguchi likes that he doesn't have to respond, and they sit in silence for god knows how long, watching the sun sink down low into the horizon and the clouds shift like they have no responsibilities or nothing better to be doing. 

"i could feel you in my head sometimes," yamaguchi looks up to kei wringing his hands in his lap, "when you were crying, after getting beat up. and when you came out to your parents, and they made you leave home," 

"it's kind of comforting, then," yamaguchi says, pondering his words carefully, "its nice to know that you were there, because i always thought that i was alone in my pain." 

tadashi feels bolder today. he stretches out and clasps tsukishima's hand in his, threading their fingers together because at the back of his mind, he already know that tsukishima's hands are perpetually too cold. 

"it doesn't bother you," kei waits patiently for tadashi to continue this thought, "when i touch you. you usually don't like it when people touch you casually. especially strangers…."

he trails off. even if he can see visions of kei's past swirling behind his pupils, he doesn't pretend that he understands, or that he know his whole story. 

"yeah. i've always hated being touched. i don't even like it when my parents or brother come too close to me," he swallows, and for a moment yamaguchi is distracted by the way his adam's apple bobs as he swallows. 

"but when you touch me, i don't feel too warm. instead i feel….how do i say this?" 

he looks yamaguchi directly in the eyes and his thumb rubs circles around the inside of tadashi's palms. 

"i finally feel like i can stop running."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope that was ok!! comments/kudos are love. 
> 
> tumblr @ andhera
> 
> twitter @ ymguchis


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